By Mitch Clattenberg
Brothers and Sisters; hark and listen as the glorious flutes of liberty herald the sacred ballet of popular uprising! We must cast off the shackles of servitude and bathe in the sparkling waters of brotherhood and equality! Power to the people, and death to the tyrants of Douglas Mini-Putt and Driving Range off of Highway 8 on the west side of town!
For too long have the mini-golf loving proletariat starved and suffered. Like rats we feed on the scraps brushed from the tables of the power-crazed, autocratic bullies that run these twenty seven holes as their personal fiefdoms: the treacherous tyrant owner Gary Douglas and his bourgeois cronies! But from this day forth, no more.
Some of you may prefer to patiently wait for bigger cages and longer chains, mindlessly pining that “even though the grounds are unkempt and the master is cruel, it is far better than to have no miniature golf course at all!” These are the cries of the lumpenproletarait and their blood will spill alongside that of the old despots.
Or perhaps you fear the sadistic jack-booted fourteen year old thugs that prop up the “company store” equipment rental? To you I say “history favours the bold” and ask: do you wish for your children, and your children’s children, to live in a world in which twenty five hundred hard earned skee-ball tickets can be exchanged for nothing but a crappy squishy head alien key chain or piece of shit laser pointer that doesn’t even work? For myself, I would rather they were strangled in their cribs.
These tyrants impose crippling taxes, and cackle jovially over our feeble protest. Do you not see that we are fined mercilessly for each ball that is lost to the murky waters that surround holes seven to twelve and are god-damned impossible to putt around? I fear that next they will be taking our first born children into slavery, forcing our sons to scrub the filthy, diseased latrines and our daughters to pleasure the pimpled, high-school age gestapo that work in the snack shack.
And they are guilty of the most treacherous betrayal of all: ejecting their most loyal of patrons, the ones who truly love mini-golf more than any, for righteously refusing to pay four fifty for a fucking powerade from the pop machines, and heroically smuggling in their own Nalgene bottle of Tang.
In many ways, a bloody coup is similar to a perfect putt: graceful, effortless, and nobly guided. The secret is that one can never have fear- otherwise you will nail the windmill every time. If the murderous, bloodthirsty puppet masters of this course have their way, I will not live to see tomorrow’s radiant sunrise. But my words, and this prophecy will live on: “And with the guts of the last general manager Sunny Pradhar let us strangle the Last King – Owner Gary Douglas, so we can finally be the miniature golf course of the free.”
Until then I’m going to Murray’s Cosmo-Bowl and Putt-Putt.
